Lost Hours
by Disney-fied
Summary: In the days after Hydra, Coulson and his team are reassembling at the Playground, but it's not easy building SHIELD from scratch. With Coulson's mysterious carving, Fitz in a coma, and Ward locked up tight in the basement, the team has their fair share of work cut out for them. The focus is mainly on FitzSimmons, but all characters appear. Post-S1, pre-S2 spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Nightmares**

 _You're more than that, Jemma._

In the flickering blue light of the ocean floor, she saw him clearly for the first time. It all seemed so obvious, so painfully transparent, and yet she'd been blind. Blind, and it was all too late.

 _I couldn't find the courage to tell you, so please. Let me show you_.

Her head swished back and forth. _No._

His face was steady, never wavering, despite the tears glistening in his eyes. How could he be so sure? Even ninety feet under the surface and with a diminishing oxygen supply, he was still so calm.

 _You have to take it_.

The world blurred with her own tears and she threw her arms over his shoulders. Her body was trembling. _No._

He wrapped his good arm, the one holding the oxygen tank, around her. _Take it, Jemma._

She squeezed him that much harder. Her mind couldn't find the words to tell him how much she cared about him – she'd never even considered how he might've felt about her, or if she might return that feeling.

 _Take it_.

She kissed his curly mop of hair, his forehead, his cheek, praying her kisses conveyed how she felt when she didn't know how else to tell him. He pushed her away gently and tucked the oxygen mask into her shaking hands. She barely moved. It wasn't real. It was a dream. She would never, not in a million years, leave him to die.

Then, before she knew what was happening, he was gone.

 _NO!_

Water rushed in and threw her against the wall, submerging her completely in less than two seconds. Her hands automatically raised the oxygen tank to her mouth and released the cap, sending a burst of air down into her lungs.

In the inky blackness of the oceanic depths, she renounced everything her survival-oriented mind was telling her – _get to the surface, go!_ – and reached instead for her best friend's body crumpled in the corner. She grabbed his shirt collar and pulled them both out the window, swimming straight for the glimmering surface above. Never mind what she knew about atmospheric pressure and nitrogen narcosis and everything else accompanying the changes in pressure upon ascension – she had to get them to the surface because she was a biochemist and she knew the dangers that a lack of oxygen could bring.

 _Swim, Jemma. Swim_.

Every kick got harder as she got closer to the surface, and she cursed the scientist inside of her that was spewing out facts about decompression sickness. She focused on the daylight getting brighter, the water getting warmer. She could force her body to obey.

But her body was too slow and the change in pressure too great. Her legs stopped responding to her commands, and her vision went spotty. The limp body she held was suddenly too much for her to keep and it slipped out of her grasp, sinking back into the watery oblivion.

Jemma Simmons woke with a start.

Her eyes darted around the room, chest heaving as she caught her breath – gray walls, medicine cabinets, the smell of cleanliness and various drugs and antibiotics.

And the bed.

He was on the bed, not drowning in the ocean. Instead, he was drowning in wires and tubes and medical equipment and hospital sheets, dwarfing his pale, unmoving body.

 _Fitz_.

Simmons stood up and walked to the edge of his bed, taking his listless hand in hers – the other one was in a stiff blue cast. His face was so gray, so still. Almost peaceful. But when she looked at him, her mind flashed back to her final vision of him – that sad smile shining in the oceanic light. No matter what variation her nightmares took, his last expression was always the same haunting image.

She swallowed and sat on the edge of the thin mattress, staring at his hand instead of his vacant face. "Hi, Fitz," she said.

He didn't move.

Fitz was never quiet. Words were how they lived and worked together. Between them, it was always words – it would still be words, even if she had to supply them alone. "I've been reading all these theories about coma patients hearing people talk to them. I've read the science behind it, both sides. Studied it a bit in college. It's all very fascinating, really."

The only sounds were the constant beep of the heart monitor and the whirring of the life-support machines.

"I don't know if you can hear me. I mean, there's no solid proof that you can, but..." She swallowed again. "There's no proof that you _can't_ , either." She traced her finger along the lines of his palm. "You can tell me what's true when you wake up, all right?"

The sliding glass door opened with a swish, followed by a soft knock. "Can I come in?"

Simmons looked up at Skye. The rest of the team had only been at the Playground for a day, now; enough time for a second round of Billy Koenig's orientation and getting settled in. Simmons hadn't even been to her new room yet. She'd passed orientation and went straight to Fitz's new room – a side-room off the main labs – which she sat in for all of five minutes before the big windows became too transparent and she found sheets to hang over them.

Skye sat down in the chair Simmons had vacated. "How is he?"

Simmons placed his hand back on the bed and stood. "Stable." She busied herself smoothing his sheets, checking his IV and the other machines. Anything to keep occupied.

"And how are you?"

She tucked in a stray corner of Fitz's blanket. "I'm fine."

Skye's head bobbed, and though she was clearly unconvinced, she didn't press the matter. "Have you explored the labs yet? Koenig took me on a tour, and they have lots of new toys for you to play with."

"I haven't looked."

"Simmons."

She looked up from the IV line to Skye's concerned face. "What?"

"Do you want to talk?"

Simmons stared at Skye. She didn't know what to say. Honestly, she didn't know if she wanted to talk, or what she would even say. This was Skye, though. Skye was a friend – she was Fitz's friend.

She reclaimed her perch on the edge of the bed and sighed, searching for the right words. "We were going to send the dwarves on the Bus to track them," she began. Might as well start when everything went wrong. "Ward found us."

Skye's face twisted at the name.

"He took us to Garrett, and Fitz – he used one of those EMP on Garrett's tech. We ran, Ward followed... we locked ourselves in the med-pod." Simmons' eyes were downcast, fixed on the memory in the past. "Ward ejected the pod and dropped us into the ocean." She winced at the memory of slamming her head against the wall and blacking out. The stitches came out two days ago, but the wound was still tender to the touch. "I woke up and Fitz said he rigged up a beacon, but we didn't think anyone would be listening. No way out, no rescue."

"But you _did_ figure a way out," Skye said.

Simmons nodded tiredly. "I wish I hadn't," she admitted. She raised her eyes and met Skye's gaze. "If I didn't suggest using heat to explode the glass, Fury would've gotten there and pulled us up, and this" – she waved her hand around the medical room – "would never have happened."

Skye bit her lip. "You were running out of oxygen. You–"

"Fitz _did_ run out because _I took it_!" Simmons exploded, surprising both herself and Skye. Tears sprung into her eyes and ran down her cheeks before she could tame them. "I took the oxygen tank even though I _knew_ he wouldn't make it, and if we'd just waited, if I'd convinced him, then he would be awake and healthy!"

She took a deep, shuddering breath, gripping the mattress in white knuckles. Fitz's silent body rested in the corner of her vision, a painful reminder of her decision. But, if she didn't suggest it, would he still have told her how he felt? She choked back a sob.

Skye didn't say anything.

"I don't know what to do," Simmons whispered.

"None of us do."

"But _I_ should." She blinked back more tears. "I'm a scientist. I have two PHDs. I'm his _best friend_."

"Simmons, you're not a miracle worker."

"I'm his best friend," she echoed, staring at the shell of a body that was once her closest companion. "What if..."

"Fitz is strong," Skye said firmly. "We'll all get through this."

Would they? Simmons knew all sorts of things about brain damage, information that had no personal connection until she woke up in the decompression chamber with Nick Fury standing over her. Fitz had been in a coma for three days now, and every day he stayed that way, there was a lesser chance of recovery. She knew that, and that's what scared her the most.

Skye stood up suddenly. "Come with me."

Simmons glanced up and wiped tears from her cheeks. "What?"

Skye pulled Simmons to her feet and towards the door. "You need a shower. And a real bed."

Simmons latched herself on to the door frame. "Skye, no."

Resolute as always, Skye kept pulling. "Fitz can wait a little while."

"But what if he–"

Skye yanked Simmons out into the labs and toward the corridor. "I'll stay with him, and if he wakes up, I promise you'll be the first to know. Just _please_ , go take a shower and sleep."

Simmons looked back at Fitz's room, simultaneously the safest and yet most agonizing place she knew. Even as she was about to argue, her body rebelled and her mouth opened in a giant, jaw-popping yawn. "A little nap," she consented. Her dozing hadn't exactly been _peaceful_ sleep.

Skye's lips bent into a half-smile. "I'll tell Fitz."

After making sure Skye was indeed going to stay with Fitz, Simmons set off down the halls, trying to remember where her own room was and if her stuff was even in there. When she finally found it, it didn't feel right; too big, too gray, too dusty, too vacant.

It wasn't next to Fitz's room like it was on the Bus.

* * *

 **Hi, friends! This is my first foray into AoS fanfiction, but it's a story I've been thinking about since the beginning of Season 2. Having just finished that, I feel that now is the time to post my little story since we've got about four months to wait until Season 3. I'll post new chapters on the weekends (probably) and no, I don't know how long this'll be. Until I run out of story to tell? :)**

 **As everyone probably guessed, I don't own Marvel or Agents of SHIELD or anything of interest, so these characters are not my own.**

 **Thanks for reading, and just so you know, reviews are the fastest way to make me write more. ;)**

 **Next time: Coulson has a writing problem!**

 **Have a fantastic day!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Midnight Sketches**

Coulson wasn't sure how he felt about being Director of SHIELD. He'd been at the Playground for three days now and Billy had shown him a brand new, top-floor office all for him if he chose. Old Coulson would've swooned at the chance to explore an old SSR base. He would've fainted at the thought of being Director.

New Coulson wanted his old life back.

In the early dawn light, Coulson woke up in his pajamas in his office – not his bedroom. And, mysteriously, his hands were a _mess_. Skin was pinched and torn and scratched everywhere. His brow furrowed. What happened?

He glanced out the window. Based on the sky, it was still early enough for him to be the only one awake, besides May and her tai chi. He rolled up to his desk and booted up the laptop. Being Director did have its perks, such as unrestricted access to security cameras. He brought up the feed from his office and replayed last night's footage.

Nothing happened until a pixilated Coulson came trudging into the office around 3:46 am, settled into his chair, and fell asleep.

Coulson brought up the feed from al the cameras and watched them on fast forward, setting the time from the point he went to bed to 3:46.

For the first two hours, nothing happened in the corridor outside his room. Nothing happened anywhere, really. Except around midnight, a disheveled, pajama-clad Simmons walked out of her room and down the hall to the labs where Fitz permanently slept.

Coulson leaned back in his chair and sighed. Fitz had been in a coma for five days with no signs of waking, and Simmons was nearly always at his side. When she wasn't, Skye informed him that she was sleeping, or trying to. His brain didn't miss the irony – one agent who couldn't sleep, another who wouldn't wake.

Old Coulson would've sympathized and been down there with her at least part of the time. New Coulson, as much as he hated himself for it, only saw or heard about the two scientists through other people or security footage. He was so busy lately – the last time he had a full conversation with Simmons, he was debriefing her and telling her what had happened at Cybertek.

His attention flickered to a lonely camera in the corner of the screen. There he was, walking through a storage basement, and...

Coulson's face tightened.

Pixilated-Coulson had a knife and he was carving on the wall.

Coulson glanced down at his hands, now seeing the various cuts as woodcuts and splinters. His heart thudded in his chest. He'd seen Garrett's carvings; he knew the reason.

He swallowed back a nervous lump in his throat. This would not end well.

Coulson brought up current video feed from the basement, and sure enough, there was a wall with the GH-325 writing on it. He had to get down there and hide it before everyone else woke up, but how do you hide a whole _wall_?

"Coulson?"

His hand jerked to the escape key and closed out the security camera window, then retreated to beneath his desk. He looked up and greeted May with a smile. "Good morning."

"You're up early," she noticed. She was still in her workout clothes.

Coulson reclined in his chair. "Couldn't sleep," he lied, though he was obviously in his pajamas. Which were covered with scratches and tears from the early morning carving session.

May gave an unconvinced "huh" and sat down across from him. "Any word from Commander Gonzales yet?"

"Radio silence," he replied. "Can't find him anywhere." For the past few days, he'd been tracking down various agents and attempting to recruit them to his new SHIELD. So far, his efforts were gaining few results.

When he looked up, May was staring at him.

He pushed his guilty hands further beneath the desk.

Her eyes narrowed. "Is something wrong, Coulson?"

He debated all he could tell her – anything he could come up with. His mouth opened slightly, but no words would come.

"Coulson?"

He brought his hands up and laid them on the desk, displaying his ruined skin for her to see.

Any trace of emotion left her face as she leaned closer to inspect them. "What did you do?" she said, voice flat.

Coulson shakily pulled up the security footage from the storage basement on the laptop screen and spun it around for May to see. "That happened last night. This morning. Look familiar?"

"Garrett." She zoomed the camera in closer to the carved wall. "You did this?"

He switched the feed back to the early morning hours when Pixilated-Coulson was still carving. "That was this morning," he said.

May didn't say anything for a moment, just staring at the screen.

"Show me."

* * *

Actually being down in the basement, freshly clothed, and staring up at the massive expanse of GH-325 writing made Coulson's fingers twitch. _He_ had done all this?

May crossed her arms over her chest. "Garrett started writing this stuff–"

"After the GH-325 injection," Coulson finished. "I know."

"But you've had it in you for nearly a year."

"I had my memories erased," he reminded her. "Garrett didn't."

Neither of them took their eyes off the wall.

"That doesn't explain why you start now, for no reason."

"When I saw his carvings, it... triggered something. In me." He took a step forward and ran his hands across the foreign writing.

"Well, what is it?"

He turned back to her. "That's just it – I have no idea. The last thing I remember before waking up in my office is going to sleep in my room." He slammed his fist against the wall. "It's like someone just took my memories of it."

"Do you have any idea what it is?"

"Only that the formula came from the blue creature at the Guest House."

May was looking at him with a stern face, as always, but Coulson saw a vague tightness in her features. He'd known her long enough to pick up on those things, and when he saw _this_ face, it was never something good.

"You need to be monitored," she said finally.

His head bobbed in agreement. "But this is between you and me. No one else knows."

She nodded curtly and walked away, disappearing in the multitude of shelves and boxes.

"Wait, where are you going?"

She came back with two sanders and two sets of goggles. "You have your cell?"

He fished it out of his pocket and tossed it to her. May snapped a picture of the wall, pausing only briefly to focus it, and then handed it back to him with a sander and pair of goggles. "Let's go," she ordered.

Coulson put his phone back in his pocket. "Do what?"

She yanked the sander to life and pulled the goggles down over her eyes. "Can't have someone walking down here and seeing this, can we?"

He put the goggles on. "I guess not."

Together, they worked their way across the wall, scattering woodchips and sawdust, but erasing all evidence of Coulson's midnight carving escapade. Nobody would know about it – nobody would notice.

By the time they were done, the Playground was just beginning to show signs of morning life among its few inhabitants. Coulson and May were already assuming their normal routines. If anyone asked, it was a normal morning. But as Coulson worked his way through breakfast, he failed to notice the patterns he drew with jelly on his toast.

* * *

 **Hi, friends! Thanks so much for reading this... the 64 viewers and two followers (thank you, Raonaild2 and aj turner .9216)** **that actually did. I'm curious to see what all you other viewers think – and I'm always open to suggestions! Give me a comment about something you are wondering about and I'll try and write it. Otherwise, I'm going to write all my lovely FitzSimmons scenes I have planned and give other chapters (like this one) to the other characters out of guilt. XD**

 **But seriously, reviews and suggestions and constructive criticism would be awesome! :)**

 **Speaking of criticism, I'm looking for a beta reader. I've never been a part of that process before, so if you're interested, message me and we'll figure it out!**

 **Agents of SHIELD is not mine. Clearly.**

 **Next time: May and Skye start training!**

 **Have a terrific day!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Rage**

May was going to be Skye's new supervising officer. She'd more or less had the idea forced upon her when the Bus landed and she locked up Ward. May wasn't _against_ training Skye – in fact, she'd been excited at the prospect – but she quickly discovered that Skye was going about it all wrong.

Like their first session, for instance: Skye had excellent coordination, perfect for an aspiring combatant, and she was willing to learn. May recognized this, but she also recognized a simmering rage underneath Skye's focused exterior. Her movements were sharp and her usual snark was absent. In the second session, she recognized that Skye was too sullen and timid from a depression.

May blamed Ward.

Of course, her own emotions weren't exactly trustworthy on the subject of that particular person. Even her tai chi – usually an athletic alternative to her other meditation – was muddled by Grant Ward's betrayal and his subsequent actions.

May still hadn't been to see Fitz. She was afraid of what she'd do to Ward afterwards – although Coulson did promise her a bit of external torture. She planned on making good of that assurance.

May kept her emotions in check enough to recognize others keeping their emotions in check. She saw it in Skye all the time – lips pinched, arms too close to her body, words spoken staccato and sparsely. As a self-made introvert of sorts, May knew better than to press on that bubbling rage beneath the cool surface.

On their third morning training session, May took Skye to the gym's floor mats and tossed her hand tape. Skye caught it easily – _good reflexes_ , May noted. So many good attributes of a field agent.

"No punching bag?" Skye asked, glancing around the gray room.

May tossed her bag onto a metal bench. "Hand-to-hand today." She pulled her hair up into a ponytail. "Unless you want bloody knuckles, use the tape."

Skye wrapped it around her fists slowly. "I've barely done any hand-to-hand," she said. "Only ever used the bags."

May kicked an old boxing glove – _gross_ – off the mat. "Barely is a good start." She turned around and crossed her arms at Skye. "Done with that tape yet?"

Skye dropped the roll on the bench with a metallic, somewhat rebellious clang and gave her a cool look.

May restrained a sigh. It was going to be one of _those_ mornings. Not even three days in and she already had her student analyzed more than Shakespeare. She motioned Skye out onto the mat and pulled her arms up into the classic beginning position.

Skye took the form easily. "I know this," she said. She shook May's hands off.

May ignored her sharp tone. "Then show me a jab."

Skye did. It was too stiff.

"Loosen up," May said. "You'll only hurt yourself."

Skye got tighter instead.

They went on doing jabs, counters, and anything simple May could think of for five minutes, except Skye did the opposite of whatever May told her to do. It was then that May decided to stop – she was fed up with Skye's emotions getting in the way of training.

"We're done," she said. She ripped the tape off her fists – _what a waste_ – and wadded it up.

"What? We've barely done anything."

"I'm not training you until you're ready to be trained." She took the tape from where Skye left it and tucked it into its pocket in her bag.

"I'm ready now!"

May, with her back turned to Skye, rolled her eyes. "You are not."

"Why?" Skye demanded.

"You're too emotional."

Skye gaped at her.

May threw her tape ball in the garbage, shouldered her bag, and walked to the door. "If you're up to it, I'll see you at our evening session."

"Wait, May!" Skye jogged up next to her. "I _need_ to train," she said, drawing out the vowels.

"Get your emotions under control and then we'll talk."

Skye pulled her hair out from underneath her shoulder strap. " _Please_ train me."

"I am. Just not at the moment."

"Why not _now?_ "

"You're too emotional."

" _I am not emotional!_ "

May stopped walking, but she kept her eyes trained forward. "You are, and you know it. You know why." She turned her gaze to Skye. "I'm not your best friend – I'm not your mother. I'm not going to put up with your angst."

She started walking.

"Why are you so... so... _cold?_ " Skye half-screamed. May grimaced but kept going. "You say that I'm emotional – but have you looked in a mirror lately?"

Her shouts echoed down the empty corridor as May turned the corner.

* * *

Later that evening when May was finished with her paperwork, but before she was supposed to meet with Skye, she decided to go down to the labs and see FitzSimmons.

She winced at the thought – those two people, so in sync, relegated to their current position. It made May's fists clench, more than ready to punch something.

Skye had been right – May was emotional. It was impossible not to be. With Ward lurking at the back of her mind, Fitz and Simmons struggling to survive, and even Coulson's mysterious carving, May had let her emotions slip through.

May sighed and went down to the labs.

She'd seen his room from the corridor and knew that the windows were covered with sheets Simmons had put up. She wished she could see into the room before she entered, bringing back ample memories of her going into unknown locations for dubious reasons in the name of SHIELD. This would not be as easy as those were, she knew.

May knocked softly. "Simmons?" She slid the door open and poked her head in. The room was empty save for two sleeping forms – Fitz on the bed and Simmons seated in a plastic chair, head resting at Fitz's feet.

Her stomach flipped.

The number of tubes and wires and lines attached to Fitz left her speechless – and renewed her hatred of Ward. The innocent man on the bed was frail, unmoving, pale, and absolutely dead to the world. His face was hidden in a mask giving him oxygen, a consistent rise and fall in his chest. May felt sick.

She _was_ too emotional.

Simmons, though she was also sleeping, was infinitely different than Fitz. Her breathing was erratic, like she was dreaming. _Nightmares_ , May remembered Skye saying. She'd had her own fair share of those.

May spotted a clipboard hanging at the end of the bed. She flipped through the pages and paused at a diagnosis section.

 _Head trauma._

 _Hypoxia_.

 _Nitrogen narcosis._

Those and other unfamiliar terms were listed on the page, coupled with Fitz's medical history. There were daily doctors' notes scribbled at the bottom.

 _Day one: non-responsive, coma._

 _Day two: broken arm set in cast._

 _Day three: no change._

 _Day four: no change._

There were five total days where there was "no change" in Fitz's condition – the length of time she'd been there. She set the clipboard down. He'd been in a coma for a week.

A whole week.

 _No change_.

May tucked Fitz's blanket around him – unnecessarily since it was already tucked and he wasn't moving – and walked back out into the corridor. She made it back to her room and collapsed against the door, head turned upward as her heart pounded and her thoughts raced. These emotions would be the death of her.

The clock read five in the afternoon – she had time to meditate before her session with Skye. May grabbed her workout bag from where she tossed it that morning and headed down to the gyms once again.

They were all empty, of course. May sat down on the old, sweaty mat in the center of the room, crossed her legs, and closed her eyes. She focused on the thump-thump of her heart and the hum of the air-conditioning unit. She relaxed her body and listened as the heartbeat slowed to a calm, constant pace.

 _Inhale_.

FitzSimmons. Pain. Sadness.

 _Exhale_.

Her heart remained steady. _Repeat_.

 _Inhale_.

Coulson. Confusion. Worry.

 _Exhale_.

The world around her faded into the background. She barely noticed the door creaking open and the footsteps shuffling over. She barely noticed the young woman sit down across from her and mimic her position. _Repeat_.

 _Inhale_.

Skye. Pride. Frustration.

 _Exhale_.

The room was silent. _Repeat_.

 _Inhale_.

Ward. Betrayal. Rage.

 _Exhale_.

 _Repeat_.

* * *

 **Hi, friends! I hadn't planned on this scene – I was struggling with how to write May and if I would write her very much at all. Turns out, she's a blast! She and Skye are now the owners of (one of) my favorite plot lines! So, you'll be seeing more of them. ;)**

 **Thank you so much to my one reviewer (hello, Guest!), my one favorite (hello, jackie c2!), and my four new followers: hello, AerynGwendolyn, CountryGal760, mickimouse (love your name!), and rapter9800! Thank you to everyone for reading this little story, and I hope to see more of you in the near future! (seriously, some reviews would be awesome!)**

 **As I said last chapter, I'm open to any and all suggestions (as long as they are not inappropriate) and I'll try and write them all! So, if you have anything you want to see, let me know and I'll get on it!**

 **I do not own Agents of SHIELD. Obviously.**

 **Also, I'm still looking for a beta reader! If anyone is interested, message me and we'll work something out! :)**

 **Next time: Skye, Trip, and FitzSimmons have a sleepover!**

 **Have a stupendous day!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Sweet Dreams**

Simmons woke up screaming.

Skye was hiding in Fitz's room to clear her head – it was oddly calming to be there, with them, instead of off somewhere else worrying about them. May might think she was emotional, but to Skye, that's all she _could_ be. Her friends were suffering and the whole team was distracted by emotions. Meditating sort of helped, but it bored her to tears.

So she had been in Fitz's rooms as the two scientists both slept, Simmons in a chair and Fitz on the bed, when the former woke and started shrieking at the top of her lungs. Skye lurched across the room – nearly had a heart attack from surprise – and grabbed Simmons' shoulders.

"Wake up! Wake up, Simmons – you're having a nightmare!"

Simmons clawed at Skye's hands and tumbled out of her grasp onto the floor.

"Simmons? Simmons!"

Wild-eyed, Simmons scrambled across the floor until her back rammed into Fitz's bed. Her face was bright red and tear-streaked. Then she froze.

Skye knelt down slowly in front of her. "Simmons?"

Her lower lip wobbled. "Skye?"

She burst into tears.

Skye wrapped her arms around her. "Shh, shh, Simmons. You're safe." She glanced up at the bed where a pale hand hung slightly over the edge. "Fitz is here. Safe. He's not drowning."

Simmons nodded into Skye's shoulders. Her body was shaking violently. "No, I know, but I just k-keep seeing him – Fitz in the..." Her voice broke and she sobbed again. Skye felt a patch of wet tears on her shirt.

"I know," Skye whispered, rocking her slowly. "But he's here. He's okay."

Sometimes emotions just happened.

Skye cradled Simmons' tremulous form, rocking her back and forth and rubbing soothing circles on her back like a mother might do to her child. She felt tears stinging her eyes and swallowed down a wry smile. What a sight they must be – curled up on the floor in each other's arms, swaying from side to side and crying.

They sat like that until Trip walked in, holding a book and a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Skye saw him and offered a little smile as an apology.

She gently pulled away from Simmons and looked into her bloodshot eyes. "These are tired tears," Skye declared. "Simmons, you're _exhausted_. We're both exhausted, but you especially. When is the last time you slept more than two hours at a time?"

Simmons wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I try to sleep, but... I keep having nightmares. It's worse when I'm alone. He helps," she said, nodding at the bed.

Trip set his book and drink on the counter, drawing Simmons' attention for the first time. "Then we have a problem, ladies."

Simmons frowned. "What?"

Trip crouched down beside them, eyes shining with a smiley glint. "We've got to get you to sleep. _Without_ nightmares."

Simmons looked away. "I've _tried_. I've been taking sleeping pills since I first got here a week ago, three different kinds, but none work."

"At the same time?" Skye asked, eyes wide, just as Trip said, "We have an idea."

Skye paused. "We do?"

Trip met Skye's gaze and winked. "Wait here, Simmons. We'll be back." He hauled Skye to her feet and out of the med-bay.

"What's our idea?" Skye whispered.

"A sleepover," he said.

"A sleepover?"

"A sleepover."

Half an hour later, Fitz's room was packed with enough pillows, blankets, and snack food for a house full of teenagers. Trip (gently) pushed Simmons down onto a foldout-couch stacked with the softest, most comfortable bedding the Playground had to offer. Skye was setting up the little television they'd found and situating it so everyone could see.

She felt unsure about it. Every minute or so she'd glance at Fitz lying deathly still on the bed, a machine breathing for him and tubes giving him food. It seemed disrespectful to be doing this in his room while he was in that condition.

Then she'd remember Fitz _before_ Hydra, how he was always so cheerful and adorably nerdy and awkward. Skye smiled. He'd like this.

Trip dimmed the lights and settled into an old beanbag as Skye put in the DVD.

"What are we watching?" Simmons asked, perched on her couch right next to Fitz's bed. It was very obvious she'd been crying.

Skye grinned and pressed play. "I found it in Fitz's collection."

The _Doctor Who_ title screen flickered onto the TV. Skye tossed Simmons the remote. "You pick," Skye said. "It's your party."

Simmons looked at the screen, the remote, Fitz, then back at the TV before choosing. "This one is his favorite," she said and the three of them relaxed as the episode started.

Barely ten minutes later, Skye looked over at Simmons and found her fast asleep at Fitz's side. She nudged Trip. "It worked," she whispered.

Trip smiled. "Pass the popcorn."

* * *

When Simmons woke again, it was to the hushed voices between Skye and May. She was about to sit up when she recognized their conversation's tone – they were having an argument.

"I was trying to get her to _sleep!_ " Skye hissed.

Simmons' heart jolted. They were arguing about _her._

"This is a safety hazard," May said, voice low.

"So is not being able to sleep because of nightmares!"

"And what if Fitz were to flatline?" May said. "The doctors wouldn't be able to get to the equipment because there's a _beanbag_ in the way."

Skye was silent.

Simmons held her breath.

"This is Ward's fault," she said after a moment. Simmons realized Skye was crying. "None of this would've happened if he hadn't–"

"It's no use dwelling on the past," May interrupted. "Ward did terrible things, but now he can't – not anymore."

"Because he's locked in the basement."

Simmons' blood chilled.

"That's right," May continued – as if Simmons' worst nightmare hadn't just come true.

Footsteps shuffled around the room. When May spoke again, it was from the doorway. "I'm your new SO, Skye. At least consider what I say before you dismiss it."

The door slid shut behind her.

"All right, Simmons," Skye said tiredly. "You can stop pretending to sleep."

She sat up immediately, blankets tangling around her stomach. If she wasn't furious, she would've been embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping, but since she _was_ angry, she really didn't care. "Ward is _here_?"

Skye's teary eyes flashed with anger, then pain. She nodded.

Simmons clenched her fists.

Skye's eyes widened and she sat down on the couch next to her. "Simmons, we need him alive!"

"I wasn't going to kill him."

Skye snorted. "Well, he's still recovering from May's beating, so anything added to that might push him over the line."

"I bet he's in better shape than Fitz."

Skye's mouth cracked wordlessly and Simmons knew she'd won that argument – not that she would really _kill_ Ward. At least, not yet. She would decide once Fitz's future became clearer.

"We all want to hurt him," Skye said.

"I want him to _suffer_ ," Simmons clarified.

"I get that, I do. He's just more valuable to us _alive_ than dead. Unfortunately," she huffed. "Coulson's orders."

Simmons looked at Fitz on the bed next to her and felt her fury subside, despite how much she wanted to savor it. But she knew it wouldn't do him any good to rage over Ward, however satisfied it made her feel. She sighed. "Thank you for doing this, Skye."

"Doing what?"

"Sitting with me. Talking. The sleepover. That was the best sleep I've had in a while."

Skye smiled. "You're welcome." She glanced around the room and exhaled slowly. "Too bad we have to clean it all up."

Simmons stood up and straightened her blouse. "I'll help – as long as we do it again tonight?"

Skye's smile broadened. "Absolutely."

* * *

 **Hello! Thank you so much for reading – seeing the stats for this story really make my day. Thank you to two new followers (Mreed13 and Yestheotherpennamewastaken) and another reviewer (thank you, Guest!). I'm still looking for a beta reader, if anyone is interested.**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Only Light in the Darkness**

Simmons thought the sleepover would help. It did the first night, anyway. But even with Trip and Skye and _Doctor Who_ , Simmons still woke up in a cold sweat and tears from horrible nightmares. On this particular night, it was Ward pulling Fitz away from her back down into the ocean depths.

She shuddered and drew her blanket more tightly around her. It must've been late, or early in the morning – all the lights were off. They came on with a timer around 6:00 every morning, but the glow of Fitz's machines provided enough light to see.

She found herself staring at them, mesmerized by the little blip of a heartbeat, a little spark of light in the darkness. Even Fitz's unmoving form was cast in its gleam. She still felt tired, but now that she was awake, she grew more and more anxious and unnerved.

Simmons was absolutely exhausted. She'd been getting, on average, two or three hours of sleep at a time, and even that was plagued by nightmares. It all served to make her feel sick and unbalanced; she _hated_ it, but she couldn't do anything to fix it. She hadn't told Skye that the sleepovers weren't working just because the company placated the unease inside of her, if only for a little while.

Simmons sighed. She was pathetic.

She was so tired that when the little blip on one of the machines spiked, she thought she was imagining it. But then it happened again.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Could it be? Did she dare hope?

It had been nine days – _nine long days_ – since the incident. That was _after_ the bends and oxygen deprivation and hypoxia and head trauma.

The machine spiked again, higher this time. A hint of a smile tickled at her face. She tossed off her blankets and went to his side, grabbing his good hand and squeezing it. "Come on, Fitz," she breathed.

Something clattered from outside his room, followed by the whirring of lights as they flickered to life. One of the SHIELD medical professionals burst into Fitz's room. Simmons couldn't remember any of their names, but this was the one with the rounded black glasses – Dr. Walker or Williams or something.

"What happened?" Dr. Wilkins – _that was his name!_ – asked through gulps of air. He must've run from his room as soon as the med-alert noticed Fitz's increased activity.

"Increased brain activity – three that I noticed, and an increasing heartbeat," she said, indicating the monitors. Her heart was beating rapidly. It was almost surreal being surrounded by a silent, empty base in the middle of the night – and Fitz waking up, bringing light back into her world.

It was going to happen, she decided. It had to.

The doctor grabbed an electronic tablet from the medicine cabinet. "Three instances of increased brain activity," he murmured, tapping onto the tablet. "Two more since then." He glanced up. "What was the interval between them?"

"I – a minute? I don't know, I'm sorry."

"That's fine," he said. "You've studied comas, Agent Simmons?"

"There was a unit in my advanced medicine class."

"Then you're familiar with the procedures?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would you like to do the examination with Agent Fitz? It's more effective with a friendly face." He gave her a little smile.

"Yes, please." She had a stupid, happy smile on her face that probably made her look crazy when paired with dark circles under her eyes, but she didn't care. Fitz was _waking up_.

The blips on the machine turned into a regular rhythm, and then into a _real_ heartbeat that filled Simmons with more joy than she thought possible. This was happening – no more waiting for her Fitz to come back.

The doctor declared Fitz "awake" at approximately 4:46 am. "Try talking to him now," he said. "He should hear you."

Simmons squeezed Fitz's hand again. "Hi, Fitz." Suddenly, she didn't know what to say. She'd been talking to him for nine days without reciprocation about anything and everything she thought of, but when he could actually hear her, she had nothing.

"You've been asleep, Fitz," she said. "But you're safe and well, so wake up for me, okay?"

"Brain activity is steadily increasing," Dr. Wilkins murmured. One of his assistants had magically appeared next to him.

"Come on, Fitz, please," Simmons said. "There's a lot you've missed. Everyone is anxious for you to wake up. Please?"

Then his eyes opened.

Simmons never felt happier and more weightless than at that moment.

* * *

Something wasn't right.

Sleeping – sleeping. Or, he _was_. Sleeping. Was he awake? He didn't feel awake. Perhaps he was still sleeping. Regardless, he felt strange.

 _Dreaming_ , he thought.

That wasn't right either.

Sleep sounded nice. Maybe sleep would get rid of the dull ache in his head – the dull ache of his entire body. His whole body felt weird, like it was floating. Or wasn't even there.

Sounds began to puncture his sleep-not-sleep. They made his head pound. He tried to curl up, to make them stop, but the thought vanished, lost in the murk of his muddled brain.

Was he asleep? He didn't feel asleep. He must've been awake.

His mind caught on a fragment of a memory, a brief glimpse of water or something, and he forgot everything else that he was attempting to do. He'd just seen it – the memory. It was _important_. Where had it gone?

The sounds got louder. He winced. _I'm trying to think_ , he wanted to say. _I'm trying to remember..._ What was it he was trying to remember? He couldn't think. Why did his head hurt so much?

" _Fitz_."

His thoughts cleared. That voice – it was familiar. Why? He knew that voice!

" _Fitz?_ "

Jemma. That was her voice. But what was she saying?

He still wasn't awake, or asleep. He was in between. He needed to _not_ be in between.

 _Eyes open_ , he realized. His eyes weren't open. Why weren't they open?

So, with great effort, he opened them.

Impossibly bright lights assaulted his vision.

"Fitz!"

The world was a mix of blurred, colored shapes. Everything was moving too fast. He felt even weirder now. Why was the world swirling like a...

He blinked, trying to clear his head. What had he been thinking? There was something important...

The world started separating, swirling less like a kaleidoscope and more like something normal. People – he saw people. Unfamiliar places and faces. He forced his eyes to move, to look around for something to explain all this... and he found her.

 _Her face_.

Eyes that sparkled, smiles that shined – how was it possible that she also looked so sad?

She didn't look sad. She looked happy.

But her eyes – normally they sparkled, but to him, they looked a breath away from tears. And exhausted. They were red.

Why was her hair such a mess?

She was talking. He couldn't understand. He didn't feel the need to. He was content to just lay there and fall back asleep dreaming of her.

"Fitz–" The rest of her words made no sense in his mind. He watched her lips move and tried to imagine what she was saying instead, but no words would come to mind.

"Fitz?"

He stared. He should've done something else, anything... but nothing he thought of seemed to work, and then he forgot what he wanted to try. Every time.

He noticed that Jemma looked sad. Definitely not happy anymore – she looked hurt.

Why was she upset? She was beautiful – she had no reason to be unhappy! Who made her unhappy?

Why was she looking at him like he was the one making her unhappy?

She looked away and pointed to something across the room. He didn't have the will to look – his eyes were beginning to droop as it was. No, he wanted to stay awake! _Awake_! Somebody made Jemma... something. He forgot.

She looked away at some other man in the room. Fitz tried to call her back but his eyes closed of their own volition and threw him back into the deep, peculiar sleep-not-sleep.

* * *

 **Hi, and thank you all so much for reading this! Seeing the stats make me feel really special inside. :) Now, instead of struggling to figure out which followers/favorites/reviews go with which chapter, I'm resurrecting something I did in one of my old stories: the tally!**

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	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Aphasia**

Skye always walked by the labs on her way to training; however, she usually passed much later in the morning. But since she was meditating with May daily now, she had to wake up earlier, and when she passed the labs at o'dark thirty that morning, the lights were already on.

Skye paused and peered in the glass. Lights didn't come on until 6:00. The labs – nobody was in them.

Then her heart jolted. What if something had happened? To Fitz? What if Fitz had...

Skye ran to his room and yanked the door open.

Fitz was on the bed, still connected to all the machines, still breathing, but Simmons – she looked different. Her eyes were bloodshot, even more so than before. At the same time, there was a hint of something about her presence Skye couldn't quite place.

She looked up as Skye walked in and smiled thinly – regretfully.

Skye frowned. "Did... something happen?" She leaned on the edge of the mattress, scanning the myriad wires and monitors for any indication. Nothing seemed different.

"He woke up."

Her head swiveled around, hair flying. "He did?"

Simmons nodded twice. "About an hour ago."

"And?"

She shrugged stiffly. "Too early to tell," she said. "He should wake up again soon. We'll have more information then."

Skye crossed her arms. Fitz was still sleeping, but now that she knew that was _all_ he was doing, she could tell a difference. His breathing, formerly rhythmic and mechanical, was now more natural. Almost peaceful. His eyebrows had a slight crease to them, like he was deep in thought.

"Did he say anything? Do anything?" Skye tore her eyes away from Fitz and found Simmons furiously blinking back tears.

"Oh, Simmons," Skye murmured. The poor girl was exhausted and heartbroken – not to mention struggling with lingering PTSD. Skye wrapped her arms around her. "He'll wake up again. It'll all be just fine."

Simmons turned away from Skye, eyes fixated on the ceiling. "I don't think so."

Skye raised an inquiring eyebrow at her.

Simmons wiped her eyes, but no tears had been shed – they'd gone as soon as they appeared. She probably had no more to give, Skye thought ruefully.

"He woke up, but he – he didn't respond to anything we said." Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. "It was like he was deaf, but then he responded to _my_ voice."

Skye bit her lip, restraining the urge to go and wrap her arms around her again. "That's good," she said.

"Yes," Simmons agreed half-heartedly. "But that's _all_ he did."

 _All he did_. Skye heard the unspoken words as if they were screamed – something was _wrong_ with him.

Skye felt sick at the thought and it made her want to curl up in a ball and cry for hours. How was Simmons so calm? Her voice was even, like she was talking about a toy or a rock. She was an entirely new Simmons than the other day. This Simmons was cold and distant, if not a bit forced. Then Skye realized that she was _purposely_ acting that way – she was holding herself together for Fitz.

Skye pushed her nasty thoughts aside and asked, "You said he'll wake up again soon?"

Simmons nodded.

Skye decided to ignore training that morning – FitzSimmons was more far important. "Mind having some company?"

* * *

Simmons was leafing through some files Coulson had given her and Skye was playing on her phone when Simmons thought she saw Fitz's hand stir. She clicked the tablet's power off and leaned towards the bed. "Fitz?"

Skye glanced up, eyes suddenly alert.

His head fell to one side of the pillow and his mouth cracked. Then those blue, blue eyes flickered open and landed on her face.

In the corner of her vision, she saw Skye's face grinning at her, but Simmons was focused only on Fitz. She summoned a smile, hoping with all her might that she looked friendly and not the exhausted-crazed-zombie Skye kept mentioning.

Fitz looked down cross-eyed at the oxygen mask on his face. His good arm twitched like it wanted to pull it off but couldn't quite get his hand untangled from the wires and sheets.

Simmons leaned forward and carefully peeled it off his face; she noticed that he flinched at her approach, but she ignored it. She would talk to Dr. Wilkins later about getting a nasal cannula instead of that bulky mask. "Better?"

His eyes went slowly to hers.

She smiled again – oh, it was definitely a fake. She hoped he couldn't tell. "Are you going to stay awake for a while this time?" she teased, feigning a light tone.

Fitz's eyes sluggishly tracked around the room, pausing only briefly on Skye's grinning face. His good arm jerked closer to his shoulder and struggled to support his weight.

Simmons' hands flew up, waving in his face. "No, no!"

He flinched again and collapsed back on the bed.

Simmons took a deep breath, relaxed her hands, and pushed the button that raised the bed into a sitting position. "That's much easier," she said lamely.

His eyes – the only part of him that was consistently moving – went to his cast. His forehead creased.

"You broke your arm," Simmons explained. Then she realized how silly it sounded. Inwardly, she smacked her forehead. "I'm not certain when Dr. Wilkins – that's your doctor, until I'm able to take over – is going to take it off. But on the bright side, you're healing nicely and shouldn't have any residual problems – with that arm."

He stared at her, the lines of confusion deepening on his face.

A hand landed on her shoulder – Skye's.

"Slow down a bit there, Simmons," she murmured.

She was babbling. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment under Fitz's slow, confused look. Simmons took a breath in, held it for an eight count, and released it. _Calm down_ , she ordered.

She looked up and flashed Fitz weak smile. "Sorry." She smoothed her shirt nervously. "Fitz, I need you to run some tests Dr. Wilkins prescribed. All right?"

He stared at her for a second, then nodded slightly. It was more of a twitch than anything, but she decided it was enough.

"Lift your right arm, please."

He blinked. Blinked again. Skye's hand tightened on Simmons' shoulder.

"Your arm, Fitz," Simmons repeated, slower that time. "Your right arm."

He looked down at the limb in question. Looked back at Simmons. Frowned.

Simmons sat down on the edge of his mattress and released a breath. Fitz looked away quickly.

Her stomach flipped – not in a good way. "Fitz," Simmons said. "Fitz?"

His eyes were fixated on a point only he could see.

"Fitz?"

He turned back to Simmons, but his eyes were glossy – unfocused.

"I need to do a quick examination of you," she said, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully – it was painful. "Okay?"

He nodded. Simmons tried not to think about how they'd already had this conversation – and how he wasn't comprehending her words and wasn't talking at all.

"Can you lift your right arm for me, please?"

The fingers twitched. The hand jerked. Then he lifted his hand off the mattress and Simmons met Skye's gaze with equally relieved eyes. She turned back to Fitz with a _real_ smile. "Good, excellent, now close your hand into a fist."

That he did not. His fingers trembled violently, but it took entirely too much effort for them to close around his palm and when they did, Fitz's knuckles were white from squeezing them so hard. He released them and stared at his hand with a baffled expression.

 _Impaired motor skills._ The words rang through Simmons' skull like an alarm. She refused to let it bother her, though, because there was simple therapy she could administer to him.

His face was one of total bewilderment – _of course_. He had no information about where he was or why. The last thing he remembered, Simmons thought, was probably pressing that horrid trigger ninety feet under the ocean surface. Come to think of it, he may not even remember that.

"Fitz," she said gingerly. She didn't know if she wanted him to recall it or not. "You may not remember this, but you – we were in an accident. Do you remember?"

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came. He nodded.

"How much?"

He swallowed and his lips parted, tongue flailing without pattern. Fitz frowned. He made a strangled half-croak sound. His lips twisted like he was trying to form a letter or sound, but nothing came. He wouldn't talk – _couldn't_ talk.

Simmons felt her heart sink down to the center of the earth and beyond.

 _Aphasia_.

* * *

 **Another day, another chapter... How did I do this time? I'm in no way affiliated with anything professionally medical, so all my information comes from the internet. I apologize if I messed anything up, and hey – if you see something I did that I could improve, let me know! I want to be as authentic as possible.**

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	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: How to Build Your SHIELD**

Rebuilding SHIELD was not an easy task. Coulson had been at it for nearly a week and he'd barely scratched the surface of the many, _many_ layers of history. That included how the original SHIELD was developed – which actually wasn't very helpful because he'd come to disagree with many of their ideals and a lot of their values were supremely outdated.

Like clearance levels, for example. He was _fed up_ with those things. They didn't help his team at all. His team proved on many occasions that they did things better without them. But that was his new identity talking. Old Coulson agreed wholeheartedly with compartmentalization of information, restricted access, and being unnecessarily-secretive on certain things that really should be public knowledge. He agreed with segregating departments and subsequently causing intense rivalries between different groups of equally-capable agents. He agreed with and supported a Director that kept more secrets than he did cash.

But Old Coulson died when Loki stabbed him through the heart. New Coulson was born when Old SHIELD resurrected him with alien goop and erased his memories. Now it was up to New Coulson to make a New SHIELD.

Coulson groaned – he was giving himself a headache. When did he decide that becoming a SHIELD agent was a good idea?

He was Director now. He reveled in the idea of building a brand new organization that was true to its promise – _protection_ – and helping the people of the world.

However, that idea required a _lot_ of work.

Coulson rubbed at his eyes, fighting off exhaustion. It was barely 11:15 – in the _morning_ – and he was already so tired. Was this how Director Fury felt all the time?

No. Of course not. Director Fury didn't have to start from scratch.

Coulson sighed, gaze landing on the little cube sitting on the desk in front of him. It came with the complete, unrestricted history of SHIELD – every mission, transaction, rule, agent, and everything else under the sun. It took him two days just to figure out how it even worked; the hologram technology was still very much a foreign concept to him, and he really couldn't ask FitzSimmons.

But the first thing he saw when he opened it was a chart, one section representing each faction of SHIELD. When he clicked on one, it opened up to a new faction, which opened to another, then another, and so on until he stumbled upon the most obscurely specific departments he'd ever heard of – _the department of canned goods? Really?_

After his brain sorted through the overflow of information, it began to make a lot of sense. His mind began running through possibilities of how he could change it, make it better, the potential additions/subtractions he could make, and who he would place in charge of each section.

Which reminded him – he needed to call that meeting. Coulson glanced at his watch and powered on his SHIELD issued tablet (they had those now!). He pulled up the messaging system and selected the recipients of his message, typed it up, then sent it.

 _11:17 am  
_ _To: Agents B. Koenig, M. May, J. Simmons, Skye, A. Triplett  
_ _From: Director P. Coulson  
_ _Mess: team meeting in galley, noon_

He closed out of the app, stood, and pulled his jacket on. If he got their early enough, he would get first choice on lunch foods and the freshest coffee.

* * *

Although Coulson didn't consider himself a cook, there was something oddly soothing about the activity, which is why at five minutes before noon, he'd prepared enough spaghetti and meatballs to feed the whole Playground.

Not that there were very many people to feed.

Coulson got out plates for everyone and finished setting the table right as Skye and Simmons walked in. They were in the middle of a discussion – probably over Fitz, based on the distressed expression of Simmons and Skye's _I'm-not-fine-but-I'm-trying-to-hide-it_ face.

Skye glanced down at the table and stopped mid-sentence. Simmons followed suit.

"Spaghetti?"

Coulson shrugged. "I got carried away."

Skye leaned over the table and warily inspected the contents of the pot. "You can cook?"

The oven timer _dinged_. Coulson grabbed an oven mitt and removed the tray, placing it on the counter.

Skye's eyes nearly flew out of their sockets. " _Garlic bread_?"

May chose that moment to arrive. "I wouldn't eat that if I were you."

Coulson threw the oven mitt down on the countertop. "I'm a good cook!"

May sat down, a hint of a smirk on her lips, and helped herself to the spaghetti without another word.

Simmons cracked a smile.

Trip peeked around the corner. His eyes lit up. "I told you it was Coulson!" he said smugly.

Billy Koenig peered around him and frowned. "Spaghetti, sir?" he asked.

Coulson sat down and scooped out a generous portion of steaming noodles. "Just eat it," he sighed.

Once everyone was adequately served and munching on spaghetti, Coulson set his fork down. But before he could say anything, Skye opened her mouth.

"I've gathered us here today," she began dramatically, sweeping her arms out to the sides and nearly hitting Trip on the nose. Simmons ducked out of the way.

Coulson frowned.

She folded her arms in front of her and smiled sweetly.

Coulson gave her an unimpressed glower and cleared his throat. "We need to discuss what kind of SHIELD we're going to be."

The room quieted instantly.

His heart sped up nervously. Had he said something wrong? Did he mess up? Was there spaghetti on his face? He resisted the urge to run to a mirror and instead grabbed his tablet from its place on the counter. He flipped open to the list he'd made while the noodles were boiling. "First order of business: the intelligence division. I think we should–"

Trip leaned forward, holding up a finger. "I'm confused," he said. He pointed at Coulson. "What did you say?"

Koenig elbowed him in the ribs disapprovingly. "He's rebuilding SHIELD."

" _We_ are," Coulson corrected. "I'm not doing this by myself."

Trip sat back, crossed his arms, and nodded. "Go ahead, Captain."

Coulson looked down at his notes. "We're starting with the Intelligence Division. Most of the subsects won't have leaders for a while since we barely have enough to cover the five branches, but it's good to go over it." He tapped on _intelligence_. "We have finances, history, missions, and management. That's the same as it always has been, although I've been reviewing some of the procedures under missions and we'll need to go over it, though not necessarily right now. I think instead of Academics being its own branch, it should also be under Intelligence. We'll save a _lot_ of paperwork, believe me. Any objections?"

When he looked up, everyone was staring at him: Skye with bewilderment, Simmons and Trip with equally creased foreheads, Koenig with an encouraging smile, and May with her usual emotionless face.

"I'll take that as a no." He quickly looked away. He was overloading them and talking too much, too quickly; and that was because he was maybe just a _teensy_ bit nervous. Before that moment, his reimagining SHIELD felt like a fantasy. Now, with the rulebook open for editing and the metaphorical red pen in his hand, it was strikingly real.

But he had to move on. He spun the tablet around for them to see. "Next: the research division. I'm thinking we switch this down to here, and this..."

* * *

After an agonizing hour, Coulson had everything checked off on his list. The spaghetti was long gone, replaced instead by a pot of coffee and tea (as Simmons insisted). As everyone else went on their way, Coulson gathered his things and followed after her towards the labs.

"Simmons?" he called.

She stopped and turned around, a questioning light in her eyes.

Then he realized exactly what kind of week she'd been having. Skye wasn't exaggerating about how exhausted she looked. She said Simmons wasn't eating or sleeping – he believed it, now.

He wanted to smack New Coulson upside the head. Why was _today_ the first time he'd seen her in person since he'd arrived at the Playground? What kind of friend – boss? – did that make him?

He pushed the thoughts away – what was done was done, and he had other things to worry about. Coulson caught up to her and smiled. "Did you look at the files I sent you?"

She looked away briefly, then back at him with a more guarded expression. "I did. However, I'm not certain what you meant by them."

He shuffled through the papers in his arms. "I was hoping you would be the head of the Science Division."

Her face froze.

Coulson imagined whacking himself upside the head multiple times with a piece of plywood. The Science Division included life sciences and _technological_ sciences – which Fitz would be great at. Of course she would know this, and she knew exactly what Coulson was leaving out.

"How is he?"

She fixed her eyes on the floor. "He woke up twice this morning, but he hasn't been coherent."

"Is he okay?"

"He fell asleep not long after he woke, but I and his doctor diagnosed him with..." She lifted her eyes to the ceiling as if the answers were written in the sky. "Recollective memory lapses, aphasia, impaired gross and fine motor skills, attention lapses." She looked back at him. "That's only based on a few minutes of consciousness. It's possible that was just the drowsiness acting."

Coulson tried to imagine what that meant for Fitz. He didn't know what most of those words implied, but based on Simmons' delivery, it was nothing good. He was expecting some reaction from his body – a rush of anger, tears, shock – but for some unknown reason, Coulson stayed composed. Calm. Unaffected. Like his body didn't care.

He exhaled uneasily. "When Fitz is ready to come back to work, will you both lead the Science Division?"

She nodded, but Coulson could tell that she didn't believe that would ever happen.

Coulson called up a small smile. "Thank you. I'll write it down."

As he settled down into his office chair and got out his new record book, he thought that maybe he should've gone to see Fitz. Talked to Simmons a while longer. Been more like his old self. Why hadn't he thought of that?

Whatever SHIELD did to him, it changed him for good. He could tell _exactly_ how he was different from the man he used to be, and he wasn't sure he liked the man he'd become.

* * *

 **Hello! Sorry it took longer to post this one – life got in the way. But here it is and I hope you like it!**

 **Today's tally:**

 **Views: 1365  
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 **Thank you. :) You people make me happy.**

 **On that note, I'd like to reiterate that I am in no way trained in medicine, so all my information comes from me, books, the internet, television, and movies. And sort of my mom. If you see anything I did wrong,** _ **let me know**_ **! I like writing accurately, and you can help with that! If you don't tell me anything, I can't get better.**

 **I don't own Agents of SHIELD or Marvel or anything close to that much fun...**

 **Next time: a day in the complicated life of May!**

 **Have a great big beautiful day!**

 _ **( I love when it rhymes this way! ;) )**_


	8. Chapter 8

**I know I said this chapter would be about May... but that just wasn't working at all. So I wrote this instead!**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight: Going Through This Alone**

"Fitz?"

He stared at her, eyes blank and mouth hanging open like he hadn't even heard her. But it was the stare that made Simmons' stomach twist and knot itself in forms she didn't even begin to know how to unravel. His blue eyes, usually so alive and sparkling, were dull and unfocused and sluggish. His face was slack. He wasn't _there_ , not at all; even though it was horrible, Simmons found herself thinking that the _real_ Fitz was still at the bottom of the ocean.

She fought down the urge to scream in a sharp inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. She pressed her fingers into her pants and swallowed hard.

"Fitz."

His left arm was still in a cast. Simmons hated it because she knew that when he began his muscle therapy, that arm would be light-years behind the other – if she ever got him to respond to her voice, that is.

She leaned forward into his line of sight. "Fitz?"

He blinked. His eyes flickered to hers, and his forehead creased ever so slightly.

Even that tiny bit of recognition was enough to power Simmons through the rest of the conversation.

"Fitz, are you listening?"

His mouth closed and opened again. She could see his tongue working, struggling to form sounds. She refrained herself from saying anything, reacting in any way, despite how much she wanted to console him and make that frustrated wrinkle on his face disappear.

He took in a shaky breath and pressed his lips together. "M..."

Simmons sat up a little straighter.

"M..." He opened his mouth into an o shape, then closed it again. His frown deepened.

Simmons bit her lip.

His face reassumed the million-mile stare once again.

Simmons leaned back in her chair and rubbed her hands over her face. She'd been working with Fitz for nearly three days, but so far, they hadn't made any progress. The best day he'd had was the day he woke up.

He wouldn't – _couldn't_ speak. He couldn't focus. He couldn't feed himself, couldn't use the toilet without assistance, and the scruff on his face was turning into a real beard. He hadn't bathed since before the accident. The longest he'd been awake was three hours, and when he was sleeping, he still had to be hooked up to a ventilator.

Two weeks ago, they were working together, solving problems, saving the world, thwarting Hydra. True, they were on the run from pretty much everyone on earth, but they were together – best friends, partners, able to solve anything that came their way. Fitz and Simmons had been FitzSimmons.

Now, Simmons couldn't get Fitz to do _anything_. The damage from the one problem they _couldn't_ solve rendered him an empty shell, while Simmons tried her very hardest to pull the _real_ Fitz back out.

She knew he would never fully be back to the way he was. Once cells in the brain were damaged, they didn't regenerate – at least, not in the same way they were before, and some never grew back at all. And even if they did...

There was still the matter of his confession.

Simmons had absolutely _no idea_ how she should feel about what Fitz said to her. Had he even said it? Did he actually mean that he... _loved_ her? The thought filled her with nervous butterflies gnawing at her insides. In all their time together, she never imagined that he might feel differently – romantically – towards her. What kind of friend did that make her?

Maybe he didn't remember. It's possible he had no memory of what he said. Maybe he didn't mean _love_ and Simmons was misinterpreting the whole thing. Maybe everything could go back to normal.

She knew it couldn't.

Simmons pushed her hair out of her face and started to yawn when a tiny tap on her knee nearly sent her flying out of her chair.

Fitz retracted his hand quickly.

Simmons leaned forward slowly. Fitz was staring at her nervously, his eyes following her movement as he held his good arm close to his chest.

"Fitz?"

He looked away and repeated the sounds he made earlier. "M... Mi..." His hand was trembling as his face twisted in concentration. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. " _Ck_."

He looked up at her expectantly.

Simmons gawked at him for a moment before she sat up in realization. " _Mike_!"

Fitz nodded slowly.

"Mike Peterson. You want to know what happened to Mike?"

His gaze was locked on hers, no longer dull but glimmering with a hint of consciousness.

Simmons felt a smile ghost her face. "He's okay. He's fine. His son is fine."

"W... w..." He swallowed. "E-ehr."

She stalled only to translate his stutter. "Where?"

He nodded again.

"We don't know. Skye said she talked to him, but after that, he disappeared."

He ran his good hand across his cast absentmindedly while his eyes flickered around the room. Finally, he looked back at Simmons and opened his mouth. "W..." He bit his lip and began again. "W... w..." Mouth opened in an arc far too wide for any natural sound, he tried in vain to continue speaking. But the sound that came was not a word. His fist clenched and he began once more. "W... ahh..." He broke off in frustration, slamming his fist onto the bed.

Simmons lurched forward and put her hand on the tense, white knuckles.

"Hey," she said softly. "It's all right."

He looked up sharply, eyes shimmering as though he was pleading with her, begging her to read his mind, to tell him how to fix him, to help him get better. The look of utter despair, the self-loathing on his face made Simmons' heart ache.

She swallowed. "I know it's hard, but we're going to get through this, Fitz. We always do."

He turned his head away and fixed his eyes on his uneaten food sitting across the room.

"Fitz, _please_ ," Simmons said. "This is something we have to do."

" _We!_ " he exclaimed suddenly, voice thick and awkward.

Simmons pulled back. "I'm sorry?"

He waved his hand at her dismissively, still staring purposely in the other direction. His mouth worked silently, testing positions, experimenting. "N... awh... t..." He sucked in a deep, shaking breath. "Yuh... ooh."

Simmons sat very still, though her heart felt like it had been ripped in half.

Fitz collapsed back against his pillow, exhausted.

 _Not you_.

His garbled words – two, simple words – were enough to end an entire conversation. It wasn't _them_ going through this; it was just Fitz. He felt alone and frustrated and sad and confused and Simmons wasn't helping at all.

They both survived a near-death experience. Simmons barely had a scratch on her. But Fitz – he was trapped in a body with a brain that was physically incapable of doing what Fitz wanted it to do.

Hot tears stung at her eyes and Simmons clambered to her feet. She turned away from him as the first of them ran down her cheeks.

"I... I have to go," she blurted.

She hurried out of the room, oblivious to the sight of Fitz holding out his hand, silently telling her to wait, to come back. Simmons ran down the halls into her room, closed the door, and locked it.

* * *

 **Well, that's that. This was a very interesting chapter to write. Half the time, Simmons' reactions mirrored what I was thinking as I wrote Fitz's struggles. How did I do? Good? Bad? Heart-wrenching? Boring? Sweet? Sad? Anything? Let me know!**

 **I'm sorry for such a long time in between chapters. I have another project I've been working on and I was focused on that for a while. I still am, but I didn't want to leave you all wondering.**

 **Here's a question I ran across while I was writing this: which hand is it that troubles Fitz during season 2? I re-watched some of his scenes, and it seems like it's his left hand/arm, but I read a description somewhere online and it said it was his right hand/arm. Anybody know which one is true?**

 **Today's tally:  
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 **Thank you all for taking the time to read this. It makes my day when I get the email alerts saying how many people are seeing my writing! :)**

 **I don't own Agents of SHIELD. All rights go to Marvel.**

 **Next time: I have no idea because I haven't thought that far ahead yet!**

 **Have a fabulous day!**


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